Short Story
I got home from work and started writing.
All of a sudden it's 2am and im still writing.
Here's the product.
The interaction started well enough. He was just like any other young adult sitting on a park bench. He had a book in front of his face and an ipod blasting into his ears. He couldn't have been more than 25, but I have never really been that adept as guessing a person's age. It must have been somewhere in that ballpark, though. He was as cookie cutter as they come these days. Faded and ripped jeans that fit just right and the t-shirt advertising a band that I had never heard of. Shaggy brown hair; the kind that you know he spent too much time on in order to make it seem disheveled. From the first time I caught a glimpse of him I could guess what he would be reading on this unseasonably warm morning. As he sat down on the other side of the bench, I was not disappointed. He shot me a quick smile before he pulled out The Catcher in the Rye. Oh yeah, I thought, he's definitely trying to get into my pants. I'm almost positive that he had a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower in his over the shoulder messenger bag, too - just in case I was not impressed by the first choice. I stared off at a group of kids playing soccer as he found his dog-eared page, secretly scanning for my reaction. I never did get the point of soccer. There is hardly any scoring, and all you do is run across the field. If I ever played soccer, I would want to be the goalie. He has the sweet job. Of course, if the goalie fucks up, it's hard to pass the blame onto anyone else. Guard the goal, it's your job. I watch these kids panting for I don't know how long before I come back to reality. When I finally, do, I realize that he is trying to make conversation. Small talk, no less. "I'm sorry, what? I couldn't really hear you", I said, forcing myself to stay pleasant despite the fact that this man has now ruined my daydreaming for a good ten minutes. He does that laugh. That little chuckle whose subtext reads, "You didn't hear me? I've been talking for over 30 seconds. You weren't even pretending to pay attention. What? Am I not good enough to talk to? Well fuck you. I hate you, you miserable cunt." Yeah. That's about right. "I asked what kind of music are you into?" Well I could have guessed that one. "Oh, you know..." This was complete bullshit. "A little bit of everything. Some indie, punk, whatever's good." I was only one sentence in and already bored. He seemed pleased with my answer. Unfortunately, not pleased enough to go back to his section of the bench and leave me the fuck alone. "Here. Listen to this. It will change your life, I swear." And then he gives me a little smile. I'm surprisingly charmed by it, but not enough to make me forget how ridiculous his last sentence was. I took a few seconds to scan my memory and see if he just used a line from Garden State to try to get laid. I can't really remember the movie, so I assume that he did. I took the little iPod plugs from his hand with obvious dread. I swear to God, if it's the Shins I am going to punch this guy in the face, no questions asked. I wondered for a moment how desperate this guy was. He didn't know me. What's to stop me from taking his iPod and running? I thought about doing it for a second, just to teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, I was already too invested in seeing what "awesome new band" he was about to play for me, and how shitty they would really sound. I take a second to do a full scan of the suspect to make a correct guess. Luckily he takes a while to find the song, so I have ample time to do this. His hair says it's going to be something like Fall Out Boy. Something trendy and not innovative. His respectable plugs say that it might be a band that would play Coachella but not Warped Tour. His shirt says it's going to be some hardcore band that will have "great lyrics" that no one will ever hear because the singer just sounds like an angry bear. The classy but worn leather belt says something like Modest Mouse. Of course, new Modest Mouse. I wouldn't expect anything better than that. The pants say Fall Out Boy again. The shoes...well his shoes don't really say anything. I'm taking one last scan and preparing for Fall Out Boy or Paramore when I notice something. It's his eyes. They don't say Fall Out Boy or Modest Mouse or psuedo-indie. They say something that almost knocks me backwards just as a song hits my ears. "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me. I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to." You must be fucking kidding. He must see the shocked look on my face because he fumbles and skips to a different band. The Kinks hit my ear like it's the first time I have heard them. The Pixies are next, followed by Tom Waits and Bright Eyes. I must not look pleased, because I can only hear the faint croon of Elliott Smith as the iPod turns off and he turns a little downtrodden to his side of the bench. Have you ever had words blurt out before you even knew they were forming in your brain? Yeah, I have. "Do you want to come over to my place and have some coffee or something?" Pardon? Did you just say that? Coffee? That probably took him by surprise. He stuttered a little before letting out this killer, "I'd love to. It's not too far, is it? I just have my bike and I wouldn't want to bum a ride off you." Your bike? Wow. Maybe this guy is a douche bag. "No, it's only a few blocks. What kind of bike?" Alright, hot shot, let's hear it. Yamaha? Harley? HARLEY? "It's a Schwinn." I think I fucking love you. It occurs to me at this exact moment that I just asked this guy over to my place for coffee. Coffee. The adult code word for sex. Saying "coffee" is like spelling out "cookie" so that the little kid in the room doesn't get wise. I just asked this Catcher in the Rye reading bike rider over to my place to fuck. Jesus, I thought, I don't even keep coffee in the house. I start to drive down the street and he follows on his Schwinn. Yeah. I'm definitely going to fuck this guy. I'm pulling into my one allotted parking space as he's locking up his bike with the care that a mother would give to a child. The elevator in my building has been out of order for three months. I'm starting to think that there is no elevator. Maybe they just made it look like that to charge me way too much rent for my shitty apartment. I'm paying my own way through college, what am I going to do about it? We walk up the stairs to the third floor. It's not hard walk, but I am still trying to think of a way to explain that I have no coffee or coffee maker in the house. As we get to the door, this matter is neatly resolved. "I don't mean to judge, but you don't strike me as a coffee person." Clever. "I'm not", I lied. The truth is, although I don't have a coffee maker in my apartment, I drink about 8 cups of coffee each day. Nevertheless, it was cute banter, and I played along. We did the awkward tour of my small but nicely decorated studio apartment. Couch. Fridge (embarrassingly bare). Cupboards (stocked with pop tarts and lucky charms, with an occasional apple). Now, when I say studio apartment, people always think that it is nicer than it really is, which is why I started saying it. As we got to my room, I was taken aback by how badly I really wanted to fuck this guy. And I didn't even know his name. I was hoping that he didn't ask me mine. This isn't because I'm embarrassed of my name. I just didn't want this guy's name to be Craig or Pete or Carl; something that would make me not want to fuck him. I could never see myself fucking a "Carl". My friends tell me it's not important, but maybe I'm just weird that way. We sit on the bed and continue small talk. I start to wonder if this guy would rather be reading Catcher in the Rye than having small talk with me. Maybe his name is Holden. For some reason, that's all that it took. I don't know if he ran out of small talk or just realized that me imagining having sex with a guy named Holden was much more appealing that I anticipated, but he started kissing me. If this guy's name is Holden and he's this good of a kisser, I think he might be sent by God just to restore my faith in men. We get undressed in that fumbling way you used to do when you were a teenager and you were in a hurry in case your parents decided to come home early to check on you. I wonder if this is more interesting that Catcher in the Rye. I wonder if Holden Caulfield would have come upstairs for coffee, knowing that it meant sex. I wonder if Holden Caulfield would hide a great chest under an old, worn out band t-shirt. I wonder if Holden Caulfield was this attractive. I wonder why I am thinking about Holden Caulfield when this stranger and I are clearly about to fuck. This stranger is kissing my neck and suddenly what Holden Caulfield would do in this situation is the farthest thing from my mind. Forty five minutes later, laying on my back in a bundle of sheets that are wet from sweat, one thought crosses my mind before I can stamp it out. There is no way Holden Caulfield was that good of a fuck. He stays for dinner and he mixes up a batch of drinks that make me think he might be some kind of secret agent posing as a hipster who hangs out in the park. Maybe that's why he's here. Maybe he I'm part of an international scheme that he is trying to stop. No, I like Holden Caulfield better. We're thoroughly drunk by the time we decide that hopping into the shower would be a good idea. He insists that drunk driving on a Schwinn is as bad as in a car, and for some reason I go along with it. Probably because he is cute, smart, and an amazing lay. Probably. I fall asleep with my head on Holden Caulfield's chest and when I wake up groggy the next morning, he's already left. This is probably because I woke up a little after noon. I put on some shorts and go out to the kitchen for a bowl of Lucky Charms, and there is a note next to the rum. "I had to get to work. I had a great time. Hopefully I'll see you at the park soon." There was a phone number next, and then he signed his name. "See you around. - Caleb". Yeah. That'll do.
All of a sudden it's 2am and im still writing.
Here's the product.
The interaction started well enough. He was just like any other young adult sitting on a park bench. He had a book in front of his face and an ipod blasting into his ears. He couldn't have been more than 25, but I have never really been that adept as guessing a person's age. It must have been somewhere in that ballpark, though. He was as cookie cutter as they come these days. Faded and ripped jeans that fit just right and the t-shirt advertising a band that I had never heard of. Shaggy brown hair; the kind that you know he spent too much time on in order to make it seem disheveled. From the first time I caught a glimpse of him I could guess what he would be reading on this unseasonably warm morning. As he sat down on the other side of the bench, I was not disappointed. He shot me a quick smile before he pulled out The Catcher in the Rye. Oh yeah, I thought, he's definitely trying to get into my pants. I'm almost positive that he had a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower in his over the shoulder messenger bag, too - just in case I was not impressed by the first choice. I stared off at a group of kids playing soccer as he found his dog-eared page, secretly scanning for my reaction. I never did get the point of soccer. There is hardly any scoring, and all you do is run across the field. If I ever played soccer, I would want to be the goalie. He has the sweet job. Of course, if the goalie fucks up, it's hard to pass the blame onto anyone else. Guard the goal, it's your job. I watch these kids panting for I don't know how long before I come back to reality. When I finally, do, I realize that he is trying to make conversation. Small talk, no less. "I'm sorry, what? I couldn't really hear you", I said, forcing myself to stay pleasant despite the fact that this man has now ruined my daydreaming for a good ten minutes. He does that laugh. That little chuckle whose subtext reads, "You didn't hear me? I've been talking for over 30 seconds. You weren't even pretending to pay attention. What? Am I not good enough to talk to? Well fuck you. I hate you, you miserable cunt." Yeah. That's about right. "I asked what kind of music are you into?" Well I could have guessed that one. "Oh, you know..." This was complete bullshit. "A little bit of everything. Some indie, punk, whatever's good." I was only one sentence in and already bored. He seemed pleased with my answer. Unfortunately, not pleased enough to go back to his section of the bench and leave me the fuck alone. "Here. Listen to this. It will change your life, I swear." And then he gives me a little smile. I'm surprisingly charmed by it, but not enough to make me forget how ridiculous his last sentence was. I took a few seconds to scan my memory and see if he just used a line from Garden State to try to get laid. I can't really remember the movie, so I assume that he did. I took the little iPod plugs from his hand with obvious dread. I swear to God, if it's the Shins I am going to punch this guy in the face, no questions asked. I wondered for a moment how desperate this guy was. He didn't know me. What's to stop me from taking his iPod and running? I thought about doing it for a second, just to teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, I was already too invested in seeing what "awesome new band" he was about to play for me, and how shitty they would really sound. I take a second to do a full scan of the suspect to make a correct guess. Luckily he takes a while to find the song, so I have ample time to do this. His hair says it's going to be something like Fall Out Boy. Something trendy and not innovative. His respectable plugs say that it might be a band that would play Coachella but not Warped Tour. His shirt says it's going to be some hardcore band that will have "great lyrics" that no one will ever hear because the singer just sounds like an angry bear. The classy but worn leather belt says something like Modest Mouse. Of course, new Modest Mouse. I wouldn't expect anything better than that. The pants say Fall Out Boy again. The shoes...well his shoes don't really say anything. I'm taking one last scan and preparing for Fall Out Boy or Paramore when I notice something. It's his eyes. They don't say Fall Out Boy or Modest Mouse or psuedo-indie. They say something that almost knocks me backwards just as a song hits my ears. "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me. I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to." You must be fucking kidding. He must see the shocked look on my face because he fumbles and skips to a different band. The Kinks hit my ear like it's the first time I have heard them. The Pixies are next, followed by Tom Waits and Bright Eyes. I must not look pleased, because I can only hear the faint croon of Elliott Smith as the iPod turns off and he turns a little downtrodden to his side of the bench. Have you ever had words blurt out before you even knew they were forming in your brain? Yeah, I have. "Do you want to come over to my place and have some coffee or something?" Pardon? Did you just say that? Coffee? That probably took him by surprise. He stuttered a little before letting out this killer, "I'd love to. It's not too far, is it? I just have my bike and I wouldn't want to bum a ride off you." Your bike? Wow. Maybe this guy is a douche bag. "No, it's only a few blocks. What kind of bike?" Alright, hot shot, let's hear it. Yamaha? Harley? HARLEY? "It's a Schwinn." I think I fucking love you. It occurs to me at this exact moment that I just asked this guy over to my place for coffee. Coffee. The adult code word for sex. Saying "coffee" is like spelling out "cookie" so that the little kid in the room doesn't get wise. I just asked this Catcher in the Rye reading bike rider over to my place to fuck. Jesus, I thought, I don't even keep coffee in the house. I start to drive down the street and he follows on his Schwinn. Yeah. I'm definitely going to fuck this guy. I'm pulling into my one allotted parking space as he's locking up his bike with the care that a mother would give to a child. The elevator in my building has been out of order for three months. I'm starting to think that there is no elevator. Maybe they just made it look like that to charge me way too much rent for my shitty apartment. I'm paying my own way through college, what am I going to do about it? We walk up the stairs to the third floor. It's not hard walk, but I am still trying to think of a way to explain that I have no coffee or coffee maker in the house. As we get to the door, this matter is neatly resolved. "I don't mean to judge, but you don't strike me as a coffee person." Clever. "I'm not", I lied. The truth is, although I don't have a coffee maker in my apartment, I drink about 8 cups of coffee each day. Nevertheless, it was cute banter, and I played along. We did the awkward tour of my small but nicely decorated studio apartment. Couch. Fridge (embarrassingly bare). Cupboards (stocked with pop tarts and lucky charms, with an occasional apple). Now, when I say studio apartment, people always think that it is nicer than it really is, which is why I started saying it. As we got to my room, I was taken aback by how badly I really wanted to fuck this guy. And I didn't even know his name. I was hoping that he didn't ask me mine. This isn't because I'm embarrassed of my name. I just didn't want this guy's name to be Craig or Pete or Carl; something that would make me not want to fuck him. I could never see myself fucking a "Carl". My friends tell me it's not important, but maybe I'm just weird that way. We sit on the bed and continue small talk. I start to wonder if this guy would rather be reading Catcher in the Rye than having small talk with me. Maybe his name is Holden. For some reason, that's all that it took. I don't know if he ran out of small talk or just realized that me imagining having sex with a guy named Holden was much more appealing that I anticipated, but he started kissing me. If this guy's name is Holden and he's this good of a kisser, I think he might be sent by God just to restore my faith in men. We get undressed in that fumbling way you used to do when you were a teenager and you were in a hurry in case your parents decided to come home early to check on you. I wonder if this is more interesting that Catcher in the Rye. I wonder if Holden Caulfield would have come upstairs for coffee, knowing that it meant sex. I wonder if Holden Caulfield would hide a great chest under an old, worn out band t-shirt. I wonder if Holden Caulfield was this attractive. I wonder why I am thinking about Holden Caulfield when this stranger and I are clearly about to fuck. This stranger is kissing my neck and suddenly what Holden Caulfield would do in this situation is the farthest thing from my mind. Forty five minutes later, laying on my back in a bundle of sheets that are wet from sweat, one thought crosses my mind before I can stamp it out. There is no way Holden Caulfield was that good of a fuck. He stays for dinner and he mixes up a batch of drinks that make me think he might be some kind of secret agent posing as a hipster who hangs out in the park. Maybe that's why he's here. Maybe he I'm part of an international scheme that he is trying to stop. No, I like Holden Caulfield better. We're thoroughly drunk by the time we decide that hopping into the shower would be a good idea. He insists that drunk driving on a Schwinn is as bad as in a car, and for some reason I go along with it. Probably because he is cute, smart, and an amazing lay. Probably. I fall asleep with my head on Holden Caulfield's chest and when I wake up groggy the next morning, he's already left. This is probably because I woke up a little after noon. I put on some shorts and go out to the kitchen for a bowl of Lucky Charms, and there is a note next to the rum. "I had to get to work. I had a great time. Hopefully I'll see you at the park soon." There was a phone number next, and then he signed his name. "See you around. - Caleb". Yeah. That'll do.